Page 47 of Wylder Ranch
I stifle another. “I think you’re right. Though I have been getting much more sleep than usual. Everly sleeps so well here.”
“Come on, let’s get her out.”
Lifting her duck towel off the hot towel rail, Alex lays it on the rug on the floor and gently scoops Everly from her bath seat. There’s a tenderness to the way he dries her, wraps her up, and tucks her into his arm that makes my chest ache. She’s a tiny baby with a duck hood falling over her face, protectively snuggled in the power of his bicep.
I’m so distracted by them that when I finally look at Alex, it’s clear he’s waiting for an answer.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“Let me take her tonight. You sleep through the night, and I’ll do the midnight feed.”
My first instinct is panic.
Bath times are one thing, but Everly’s been in my room sleeping next to me since she was born. What if shewakes up and doesn’t know where she is, then screams? What if she wakes up expecting me and gets Alex instead, then screams?
What if she needs me but can’t find me, then screams?
But Alex reads it all. “You’re only next door. If it’s that bad, you’ll hear her. You can even turn your monitor on if you want. And if not, I’ll come and wake you. But isn’t it worth a full night’s sleep to try?”
I chew on my cheek, weighing up the pros and cons. And honestly, I can’t find any cons, and all the pros start with sleep.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I peer into the sleepy face of my daughter, who doesn’t seem to have any objections, and nod. “Okay, thank you. But promise you’ll come and get me?”
“We promise. Let’s put her to bed together and then go and eat that delicious dinner I can smell.”
We don’t go into his room—the only place in the house I’ve yet to enter—instead, Alex sits in the rocking chair and gives Everly her bottle. She falls asleep so easily once she finishes it I wonder if I imagined all the weeks she’d scream until she was hoarse, when I’d cry helplessly next to her because I didn’t know how to make it better.
But since we’ve been in England, she’s been less grouchy, and I haven’t cried. The crushing loneliness I felt after Everly was born is less acute, and when Alex whispers to come downstairs for dinner, I follow him eagerly.
“Oh my God, what smells so good?” he groans, making me chuckle.
“It’s my mom’s recipe. Chicken parm with mashedpotatoes.” I gesture for Alex to sit at the kitchen table, but he opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine, followed by two glasses from the cabinet.
“My dream,” he replies, shooting me a grin, and whether he means it to be or not, it’s panty-melting.
I make quick work, hurrying to lay it out while Alex sets the table for us. It’s a far cry from the rushed meals I’d scarf down for energy, then trying to sleep before Everly woke up.
We eat and we laugh, and Alex tells me about the two hours he had to leave us to help Lando and Hendricks move the donkeys into their new field, which ended with Lando flat on his back in a pile of donkey shit. By the time he finishes describing the scene, he’s laughing so hard that tears are pouring down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking enough to set me off.
“That was good.” Alex pushes his plate away and takes a breath. When he leans back in his chair, my gaze follows the movement of his hand slipping under the waistband of his joggers, before I realize what I’m doing and look away swiftly. “There’s no way I could learn to cook like that.”
“It’s not rocket science. It’s just chicken.”
He stands and takes my plate. “There must be something you do to it because I’ve had chicken, and yours is better.”
I follow him to the sink with the bowls, which contain mashed potatoes and green beans, and open the dishwasher to begin stacking them.
Immediately, his big hand covers mine. “Stop. I’ll clean up. You cooked, remember?”
I stop.
My brain zeros in on the sensation of him touchingme, his hand on mine. It’s so slight and featherlight, but it’s as powerful as gasoline to the flames licking at the base of my spine.
Then his thumb strokes my knuckles, and it’s almost too much.
